New York
by trufflemores
Summary: Fluff of the Kurt introspects on a lazy Saturday morning about his relationship with Blaine variety. Klaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

When Blaine moved into their loft - and it was finally, finally _theirs _again, not his-and-Rachel's or his-and-Santana's but _theirs - _the dynamic changed. The quiet silences that had become the norm during Rachel's absence evaporated, replaced by Blaine's soft humming as he baked bread or warmed coffee, Rachel's sharp, joyful, cackling laughter at a joke that was told beyond Kurt's hearing, and often times Santana's unending commentary about how their life was becoming more of a rom-com by the hour. The tantalizing taste of cinnamon buns and the rich allure of Blaine's hot chocolate kept Kurt comfortably in love with the mess and sprawl and noise that was home.

There was always laundry piled up in their respective hampers. Hot water was scarce after the first two showers, leading to frequent early-morning shouting matches between the three of them and one sleepy, conciliatory Blaine being towed after Kurt as he yelled at the girls and made coffee. And of coffee there was plenty, until Rachel broke the coffeemaker one morning. (Eventually Kurt caved and bought a new one after four torturous days of settling for the lukewarm coffee at the cafe across the street; he couldn't function properly without his first cup of coffee, let alone face Santana _and _Rachel.)

It was more than their routines that changed, though; their whole state of being changed. Kurt awoke more often than not to warm weight in his arms, a nest of curls tucked underneath his nose and the familiar smell of sleep-warm Blaine infusing his senses. He shuffled through his morning routine with someone to appreciate the familiar indignation of Santana's bras on the floor and Rachel's groceries crowding out all the counter space in the kitchen. He made an extra pot of coffee and three extra pancakes (Blaine was _ravenous _in the mornings, Kurt had learned, even if he still insisted on eating a salad with both fork and knife), adding blueberries to some that he would only eat offered playfully on the end of Blaine's fork.

There was an air of serenity that surrounded them, shielding them from the noisy, bustling city beyond and making all the small problems that much more manageable. It didn't matter that Kurt's daily commute ranged between half an hour to two hours, depending on the weather and the transportation. It didn't even matter that sometimes he worked overtime on their scheduled date nights or rose before sunrise on Saturdays to pick up an extra shift at Vogue dot com. It didn't matter that he was occasionally too tired for sex on the rare, precious nights that they had to themselves and often fell asleep in Blaine's hold while they watched movies with Rachel and Santana as part of their ritualistic but strictly unnamed family time.

Kurt loved how Blaine blended into his life, a constant presence that that he felt perpetually drawn to. He couldn't not think about him, wondering how his classes were going at NYADA (well, but dance classes with Ms. July were as brutal as they'd ever been), how his habitual need to roam the loft in the early hours of the morning was coming along (also well, but mostly because Blaine tended to yield without a fuss anymore rather than brandishing a frying pan whenever Kurt laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and explained that the radiator wasn't, in fact, going to eat him), and how far his adjustment to life in New York had come (very, if the decreased number of _I'm lost _texts were anything to go by). Kurt loved the shared moments that existed between them, stolen glances and linked hands and warm shoulders and hips and mouths pressed together, sharing each other's everything.

Of course, there were things that differed between them. Kurt was downright boyish compared to Blaine's compulsive need to straighten and clean and tidy things. Kurt left the cap off the toothpaste (disaster) and his used towels unfolded (an even greater disaster). He licked whipped cream off his fingertips and ate pizza from the box and stole food from Blaine's plate (to be fair, Blaine did the same, but only when Kurt _wasn't _looking). But he still organized his closet carefully and had a strict routine for his daily skin care regimens that he refused to change (because as a Vogue dot com intern _and _a NYADA student, he absolutely could _not _afford an unseemly breakout).

Blaine, too, had his faults, namely his inexplicable refusal to make the bed (and his tendency to steal _all _the blankets at night despite being a living space heater), his slow but steady adoption of all of Kurt's coziest socks (and subsequent denial that he had _claimed _any of them), and his tendency to repeat outfits without Kurt's guiding hand to steer him away. They were in New York; appearance mattered, and red polos could only be worn so many times per week before they drew unwelcome attention.

Kurt just wanted Blaine to be happy in New York, as happy as _he _was that Blaine was in New York, and he couldn't help but feel the warmth spreading down to his toes as he heard a figure shuffle into the living room, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. "Good morning, sleepyhead," Kurt greeted, finishing the email to Isabelle that he'd been working on as Blaine grunted in reply, squinting around them and letting out another yawn.

"Time 's'it?" he mumbled, sliding onto the couch beside him and burrowing against his side, legs tucked up to his chest. Unable to help himself, Kurt tilted his head and kissed him once on the top of his head, returning to his email and adding a quick _thank you_ before hitting send. He knew that she would understand _why _he wanted the time off to work from home - it was rare that both Santana and Rachel were gone for more than a day or two at a time, and the prospect of a long weekend alone with Blaine sounded _heavenly _- but it still made his heart pound with anticipation before Blaine let out a soft snore at his side and he laughed.

"Mm," Blaine grunted, waking with a halfhearted start as he rubbed his cheek against Kurt's shoulder.

Rolling his eyes fondly, Kurt set his laptop down on the coffee table and scratched lightly along the nape of Blaine's neck, savoring the way that he leaned into the touch, trusting and open and _happy_. They didn't have anywhere to be and it felt good to just relax with his fiance, Blaine's warm breath soft and even against his side.

Even with his ridiculous red shirt (and Kurt would have to wean him away from solid red shirts eventually, he _would_) and his unfairly soft white pants, Blaine was almost elegant against him, contrasting the rich violets and blacks and blues that Kurt had selected for his own outfit. "Come here," he ordered, manhandling him gently until he was lying on his back against the arm of the couch, Blaine settled between his legs and already dozing off against his chest again, fingers curled trustingly against it.

Maybe, Kurt reflected, the things that he loved best about New York - the fine dining and the Broadway shows and the opportunities for fame and recognition and _acceptance _- could all be narrowed down to the simple pleasures of having someone that loved him in a place where he could love him without interference, a place where they could continue their promises and grow stronger together and start a life anew.

Closing his eyes at the thought, he held Blaine close and listened to the quiet synchronicity of their breathing, smiling at the tiny, perfect existence that they had carved out for themselves in the midst of the chaos of their passions. Maybe they hadn't achieved their dreams yet - and certainly Kurt hadn't achieved his desires to be famous and known and _respected _- but they had each other and, in that moment, all the world itself could have disappeared but, as long as Kurt had Blaine, then he would be content.


End file.
